


Between the idea and reality, between the motion and the act

by bluebells



Series: The reformed trooper, his murder husband, and the force baby who loves them [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Allusions to PTSD, And the force baby who loves them, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, His reformed stormtrooper, M/M, Nightmares, The idiots remain oblivious and touch-starved, The mandadlorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: Corin is heavy.The Mandalorian has dragged many bodies in his lifetime, usually by skiff, on necessity by limb. Carrying someone over the bulk of his rifle holster is hard enough when they aren’t sliding down his cloak. Corin’s chest is too warm against his back. He tries not to dwell on why.But warm is good. There’s still life in warm.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian/Corin
Series: The reformed trooper, his murder husband, and the force baby who loves them [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577281
Comments: 46
Kudos: 842
Collections: Movies





	Between the idea and reality, between the motion and the act

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Family and Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758992) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> _Speech in italics are spoken in Mando’a._
> 
> LadyIrina's "The Mandadlorian, his son and the Storm Trooper" series is necessary reading. You will regret nothing. This is set sometime loosely during/after the events of 'Family and Home'. Thank you for this new, all-consuming and wholesome obsession.

Corin is heavy.

The Mandalorian has dragged many bodies in his lifetime, usually by skiff, on necessity by limb. Carrying someone over the bulk of his rifle holster is hard enough when they aren’t sliding down his cloak. Corin’s chest is too warm against his back. He tries not to dwell on why.

But warm is good. There’s still life in warm.

He readjusts the loop of Corin’s arms over his shoulders, jaw grinding. Unconscious, the ex-stormtrooper groans, pained at the Mandalorian’s effort to tug him into a firm hold.

A worried burble of sound makes him look down. In its sling across his chest, the child searches his face with deep, worried eyes, large ears drawn low. A red smear across its face makes his chest tighten; Corin’s blood. The child warbles again, a soft noise of distress, and tiny hands reach up for Corin, his chin lolling on the Mandalorian’s shoulder.

 _“It’s all right,”_ the Mandalorian murmurs, jaw tight through the effort of walking at pace while trying to stay low for cover, stay ahead before _they_ catch up because he can’t return fire like this, he can’t slow down, and he can’t leave them.

He can’t leave him. He promised.

The _Razor Crest_ isn’t far now.

 _“He’s going to be fine,”_ the Mandalorian soothes, quiet and urgent. _“But you can help.”_ The child pouts at him, hands tight on the cloth of its sling, bouncing at the Mandalorian’s quick pace. _“Need you to stay quiet. We’re going to work together, okay?”_

He stumbles, catching himself on one knee and the child mewls in fright. He wonders, not for the first time, why he decided to carry Corin like this. Why the idiot had to storm off in the first place.

The Mandalorian can’t even remember what he had said -- or didn’t say -- to make him leave. It had taken him by surprise: Corin excusing himself in a murmured bluster, expression drawn, claiming he was going for a walk. Usually, he was so reluctant to leave the child and the safety of the ship. The Mandalorian couldn’t remember the last time he’d left Corin by himself.

(Especially not after…. No, he had to push those thoughts aside.)

When he finally caught up to the former trooper in town, Corin was already slumped against the counter of the local bar, the far wall fixed with his thousand-yard stare, halfway through a mug of ale, and making not-friends with the hall full of patrons goading his back.

“Hey, blue eyes, have a drink with us!”

They had made the Mandalorian’s hackles rise in a familiar warning. Corin didn’t have the same learned intuition, but then, the Mandalorian already knew the idiot’s survival instincts left a lot to be desired.

Those men were insistent. “Come on, pretty boy--”

“Forget them.” He caught Corin’s elbow when the man rose and turned like he intended to confront them. Jaw tense, Corin wouldn’t look at him. That stung… and confused him. Corin never ignored him. “Come back to the ship.” It came out like an order instead of the invitation he’d intended it to be. He tried again, gentler, probably failing, “Corin.”

On his back, the child burbled, sleepy and vague. The hour was far past its bedtime and it had groused unhappily when the Mandalorian bundled it up for the trek to recover its other caregiver.

It was unsettling how Corin had refused to look at them, tuning even the child out instead of the idiots who had then turned their attention to the Mandalorian’s gleaming armour.

Maybe if Corin had ignored those men, played it cool, and just come home, they could have avoided this mess. Maybe those men wouldn’t have noticed the child strapped to the Mandalorian’s back.

And then, maybe, the Mandalorian’s friend wouldn’t be nursing a new hole in his gut. It was just Corin’s luck that he would find the few bounty hunters on this planet.

A weak groan in his ear cuts through the heat of his frustration. The Mandalorian’s chest pinches with guilt, and he palms the arm across his shoulder in weak reassurance. He knows Corin’s in pain. He knows it’s Corin’s nature to throw himself between the child and danger; much as it drives the Mandalorian mad, it’s also why he trusts him.

It’s not _Corin’s_ fault that he lacked the right armour to protect him.

Swallowing thickly, the Mandalorian clutches back at Corin’s shoulder, tugging him more firmly into place. His stomach drops, chest tightening cold.

Corin’s beskar pauldron is missing.

He’s too late to react to the whistle in the air. The explosion blinds him before the concussive blast throws him off his feet, flinging them in separate directions.

The weight of Corin is gone from his back. His ears ring with the child’s scream, an agonising sound of fear that hollows him.

And the world eclipses in white.

///

The Mandalorian startles awake on his thin cot of the _Razor Crest,_ blood roaring in his ears, heart pounding.

He blinks at the dark ceiling of the sleeping alcove, unseeing until awareness filters into his senses. Unclenching his fists, he takes a deep breath to release the tension wound through every fibre of his body. Another deep breath, his shoulders drop, and the knot in his stomach begins to unwind. Trembling, he takes another, slower and deeper.

Around him, the ship hums and creaks on its glide through space.

Hot sweat is rolling down his brow, and he can feel it collecting in the cushioned neck brace of his helmet.

He can’t breathe. His HUD shows there is no issue of oxygen, but his HUD is also fogging with steam. He grasps at the jaw of his helmet, claustrophobic. He can’t breathe.

His breaths come short and shallow, and he has almost tugged it high when a thread of nerve pauses his hand, instinct trained over a lifetime.

He has oxygen.

He scans the small sleeping quarters again, finding no signs of danger.

He is safe. He is alone. Just a dream. It wasn’t--

Wait. _Alone._

_Where are they?_

The Mandalorian rolls and stumbles from his cot before the thought has fully formed, and he staggers through the bay, up the short ladder, searching with ungloved hands for the control panels on instinct.

The cockpit doors obediently slide open under his fumbled command.

There, in the gentle warmth of the console’s blinking lights, Corin dozes in the pilot’s seat: slumped low, arms thrown over the sides, soft snores escaping his slack mouth. With tiny hands buried in the collar of his shirt, the child drools on his chest in its sleep. Its large ears twitch at the Mandalorian’s commotion, but it only burrows deeper into Corin’s shirt, subconscious instincts detecting no risk at the Mandalorian’s arrival.

The terror of the dream still holds him in its grip. Stalking over, he stares, soaking in the sight of their blissful ignorance in sleep, the important lack of a gaping wound in Corin’s gut, and the child’s face free of blood. 

It was just a dream. They’re fine.

Their slow, deep breaths are a balm to the panic still thrumming under his skin. Slowly, he sags in relief.

They’re fine.

He collapses into Corin’s usual seat, the hinge creaking in weak protest. His head drops to his hands. He winces, feeling the sweat trickle and soak into the pad of the helmet’s neck brace.

It’s been a long time since a dream has held him like this. 

Corin’s soft snores reassure him of his safety. He focuses on that sound. He lifts his eyes and drinks in the same sight he has on so many evenings when he has wandered, unable to sleep. Corin at rest with his arms open, thighs splayed, the long, vulnerable line of his neck entrancing, so much skin just...exposed. The way his brow pinches in a small frown, worried even in sleep. The Mandalorian bites the inside of his cheek and flexes the tendon of his wrist, reminding himself he will not try to smooth out that frown. They do not touch like that. He’s not welcome there.

Corin’s hair is getting longer, almost falling across his eyes. Those bright, beautiful, piercing blue--

The Mandalorian bites his tongue and steels himself with a sigh, eyes falling shut. Corin is just… maddening. The skin of his wrist burns with the phantom memory of a touch that has haunted his days and nights. He doesn’t know which are worse: the dreams where they’re dying, lost, or where Corin moulds against his back, tight groans in his ear, hands firm on his thighs and drawing the Mandalorian against him.

Stop. He has to stop this.

Shoulders sagging, he removes his helmet to mop the sweat from his face with his shirt.

When he straightens, the child is blinking at him sleepily over Corin’s shoulder.

The moment their eyes meet, his gut clenches, breath catching in his throat.

Oh no.

No.

This-- this doesn’t count, he didn’t-- it’s just a child, they don’t--

The child coos and blinks again, face soft with sleep. Maybe it’s still more asleep than awake and doesn’t realise what it’s seeing. Maybe the Mandalorian can get away with this.

But that curious coo comes again and the child sits up attentively on Corin’s chest. It should be no surprise that the child recognises him without the helmet. He knows that look, and it’s waiting for him to offer his hands.

Eventually, its open, patient expression untangles the knot in his stomach, and he relents, rising with a heavy sigh.

Heart racing, he keeps a wary eye in his periphery for the slightest hint of movement from Corin and gently lifts the child under its arms. He doesn’t know why, but he can’t help drawing it up close. Its sweet breaths fall raspy and warm on the bare skin of his face, and it blinks, slow and trusting, as the Mandalorian gently rests their foreheads together.

It’s a startling relief to feel the skin of another against his own. He’s shaking.

After so long looking after this one, something in his chest trembles loose when he breathes in the scent of the child without his helmet filter, warm and hale, and the natural hemp of its swaddling fills his nose. He closes his eyes with a shuddering breath of relief as small hands paw his temples, curiously pinching his cheeks with blunt claws. The child burbles in quiet delight.

It feels dangerous exposing himself. Allowing himself this when he knows the helmet must go back on, but with the child’s soft breaths against his skin and Corin’s snores in the background, the Mandalorian finds his anchor.

 _“Our secret,”_ he murmurs after a long moment, drawing back with a small smile. He can’t help but marvel at the novelty of seeing the child, hearing him, without the filters of his helmet. _“Okay?”_

A small claw hooks into the corner of his smile and those big eyes blink back at him. The child chirps softly, head tilted in question. Its ears droop. It looks… disappointed?

That gentle look crumples something in his chest. The nightmare has left him shaken, and he crushes the child close, mouth pressed to the small crown of its head, his eyes shut tight. It scares him how much this child has come to mean to him. His blood chills remembering the echo of its screams in his dreams, and losing hold of Corin in the blast.

What will he do if anything happens to them?

Corin’s armour, along with his beskar pauldron, is stored down below with the rest of his meagre belongings. Unlike the Mandalorian, he prefers not to be weighed down by it in the sanctuary of their ship. Armour is for out _there._ Although he’s divested his joke of old stormtrooper armour, the Mandalorian thinks Corin is tentatively relieved to walk unburdened by the weight of any armour, after a lifetime of conformity. But Corin will need better armour, and soon. The Mandalorian will see to it.

Lips still pressed to the child’s soft tufts of hair, he looks down at Corin’s artless sprawl, delighting when the child sleepily nuzzles him back, uncaring of his prickly, unshaven state. It is so precious. They will never let anything happen to this child. He is confident in their ability to keep it safe.

Corin, on the other hand. Of all the people who had to fall in with them, why did it have to be someone with such weak instincts for self-preservation? 

It is very, very important to the Mandalorian that Corin stays alive. Who else would look after the child while he ran jobs? And gathered resources? And bathed? Who else could he trust to sleep at his back and shoot with greater accuracy that belied his former station?

(He tries not to tease Corin about his stormtrooper aim, but it’s too easy. He’s actually a good shot.)

“What are we going to do about him?” he murmurs into the child’s skin, and it mashes its face against his cheek, crooning happily.

He hates to disappoint the child, but hovering this long unmasked with Corin _right there_ is tempting fate. He ignores the small, affronted noise of the one in his hands when he draws back to slide the helmet back on.

There will be a time, perhaps, when he doesn’t have to. But imagining such a prospect makes his heart race and it’s easier to rein his pulse back to order with a scowl, pushing the confusing rush of those thoughts down deep and out of mind.

Corin startles awake when the Mandalorian kicks his ankle.

“Nuuh--It wasn’t me!”

The Mandalorian raises an eyebrow at his slurred defence and appraises Corin’s sprawl in _his_ chair. “Comfortable?”

Corin blinks up at him several times, still waking up. His gentle squint is frustratingly earnest and he cants his head like he’s been asked a trick question. “... Yes?”

The child yawns wide and loud in the Mandalorian’s ear.

He gestures with the little one reclaimed to his side. “Don't let him sleep on your chest. He’ll make it a habit.”

Corin pushes himself up straight in the pilot’s seat and he’s already nodding. “I’m sorry, I was-- I didn’t even-- he just… you know, sometimes, he doesn’t listen to me.”

No, the Mandalorian had no idea, it was definitely news to him that their tiny charge was a defiant master escape artist. 

“--I put him in his bed. I must have dozed off! I swear, I was only out for a few minutes--” Corin glances at the console’s chronometer and the Mandalorian pretends not to notice his double take. “But I-- the auto-pilot… yes.” Corin seems to finally run out of steam and collect himself, shaking his head. “I will, yes. I’ll try.”

“You’ll try?”

“I mean, I won’t. Let him sleep here.” Corin nods firmly, just as well conceding, _whatever you say, whatever you want; it’s your ship, your responsibility, your call._

The child warbles disdainfully in his ear.

They _are_ his responsibility.

Corin freezes, stock still, when the Mandalorian hums thoughtfully, leaning down to draw the man’s shirt up over his abdomen with light fingers. The image of Corin’s gut torn open to blaster fire still burns on the inside of his eyelids. His skin prickles with the dream sensation of Corin’s blood running down his back. But here, the skin of Corin’s torso is smooth and pale, and only a low, jagged scar remains of his ugly wound from all those months ago.

The Mandalorian forgot that he isn’t wearing gloves. The texture of Corin’s belly under his fingertips is electrifying: smooth, warm skin and firm muscle, fine hairs collecting in a trail leading down low….

The Mandalorian looks into his face. Corin’s eyes are huge.

He forgets to breathe.

The child yelps, almost slipping from the crook of his elbow, and the moment is broken when he fumbles at its annoyed yank on his cloak.

Corin is already reaching for the child, rising to his feet as the Mandalorian straightens, stepping in close to help. “Here, come on, little one.”

The Mandalorian flusters at the abrupt proximity of Corin up in his face. His sweet concern always so genuine and effortless for this child, makes him flush with heat. His chest thuds in that aggravating way again. The cockpit is suddenly not big enough.

He steps back automatically, the child selfishly drawn tight against his shoulder. “It’s fine.”

It really is. It’s fine.

Corin frowns at him in confusion, offered hands still outstretched. “N-no, it’s okay, I can--”

He steps back to clear a path to the door. “Take the cot. You clearly need it.”

Corin glances between him and the child, blinking wide. After a thick moment of silence, his hands drop. “Okay, I’ll--” his mouth twists and he glances back at the console. He gestures vaguely with a shrug. “Autopilot’s still on. I haven’t adjusted your course settings.”

“No. Why would you?”

He sees Corin swallow, and his shoulders draw in close. It’s a constant wonder why such a lean, muscular man keeps trying to make himself small. The Mandalorian doesn’t expect Corin to do anything more than keep watch and keep the child’s mouth away from the controls. It’s currently going through a phase of exploring the world by introducing everything to its mouth.

For a moment he thinks Corin is going to say something more. The man’s mouth pulls in a tight smile, he bows his head, something indistinct murmured under his breath, and he gives the Mandalorian as wide a berth as he can manage when he excuses himself, almost stumbling over the other seat in his passage.

The Mandalorian stares at the door when it hisses shut. After that brief commotion, the quiet is deafening. 

He looks down at the child and shrugs, pleased with himself.

“Well. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

The child slowly blinks back at him, claws tight in his collar, managing to look both sleepy and unimpressed.

Corin would get the rest he needed, the Mandalorian would avoid those nightmares for a few more hours, and someone responsible would ensure the child slept in its crib.

Everything is fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bellsybuilds) to talk force babies vs clothes, and the caregivers losing hair over them.


End file.
